The Continuing Adventures of Renaissance Gonzo: The Great Florida Expedition

Day 1: Travel

I was delirious. I had spent the preceding two nights having wild sex with my broad. And when I say spent the two nights having sex, I mean just that. We fuck like rabbits.  About four hours of sleep all told. It's important to know that up front in order to understand what comes later.

I arrived at the airport at 6:15am. I travel light, but a little more heavy than I'm used to this time. I had my normal sized backpack filled with seven shirts, one pair of shorts (that's all I owned), two changes of underwear, two pair of socks, a pair of running shoes, a few toiletries, and various tiny odds and ends. I also had a guitar with me. Even so, I didn't need to check bags. I kissed my broad goodbye, and proceeded through security. Then something weird happened.  Not necessarily bad. Just weird.

I recovered the guitar and the backpack from the end of the scanning line, but the plastic bin with my flip-flops, wallet, change, and phone was being held. I couldn't understand it. It seemed idiotic. Everything was out in the open, yet the slovenly TSA hag, who looked like a thin, chain-smoking ash-pile waiting to crumble, and who, like her coworkers, has a much more important job than both her behavior and her wages would indicate, was telling me that there was something she "couldn't identify" on the x-ray.  She called at least four times for a "bag check" (despite the absence of an actual "bag" anywhere) before another TSA oaf, this one a half-giant with ginger hair and a much too him-haw disposition for my taste at that fucking hour, finally grabbed the bin and took it over to a counter where I stood, a bit flabbergasted, really, and asked him what could possibly be insidious about a pair of flip-flops, some loose change, a wallet, and an iPhone. He put on a pair of blue latex gloves, after scratching himself in several spaces, and said that there was something in the wallet.  I immediately knew what it was. "Shit," I said, there are lockpicking tools in there. They're in a plastic case that looks like a fake credit card. I forgot all about them." I was expecting him to be a douche, and that he was going to tell me I'd have to leave them there at the airport, but instead the oaf told me that apparently I'm not as cool and super-spy-like as I thought, and that a lot of people have "wallet tools," and that as long as there are no sharp edges, it's all good. Okay fine, sir... ma'am... Sorry for calling you an oaf and a hag.  Whatever. Just get me on the goddamn plane. I fucking hate airports.

I made my way to my concourse and my gate. And promptly realized that if I were going to make it through this day, I would need to have some help. I hit the Starbucks and got the biggest fucking iced mocha I could order.  "Easy on the goddamn ice!" I told the baristo (he was a dude). Then I found a spot between two payphones, plopped down on the floor and plugged my phone in while I waited for the Southwest Airlines cowboys (and cowgirls) to wrangle us all up and get us on board. I felt like a husk.  Like so much loose carbon wrapped around a fruit that had been rotted to dust.  So much so, that the thought that I was going to Florida didn't even really register to me. It was more like, this is a thing I'm doing. I'm on this ride 'cause I planned to do it, but all I want to do is sleep.

Planes are planes, and I won't bore you here with that nonsense. We got on like cattle, sat uncomfortably for three hours, then we got off in Chicago. Then we got on again like cattle, sat uncomfortably for another two and a half hours, then we got off in Tampa.

Wait.  Let's take a time out, so that we can get some things straight first.  Things like who I, Renaissance Gonzo, your narrator, am, and things like why the fuck I was going to Florida in the first place.  Well, the first part can get a little complicated, the second is much more straight forward.

You don't know about me without you've read a story by the name of "The Adventures of Renaissance Gonzo: The Great Western Desert Road Trip" here on my Wattpad page. Oh, and yeah, I just ripped off Twain. Suck it. I'm an asshole. I do shit like that. Anyway, if you have read that story, then you'll know that it was a mostly true story - I might'a made some shit up here and there, but mostly it was true. Maybe not factual, but true. I am a fictional narrator. I am not a real person. My real-life counterpart, the body I inhabit, in other words, is much more nice. He's polite. He cares about things like morality and what people think of him and all kinds of other shit that doesn't really matter to someone like me. All I have to do is tell the story. You can judge me for that all you want.

Anyway, if I sound a little defensive there, it's because my RLCP (that's how I'll refer to him henceforth), still has a pretty tight hold on me as I type this. The last story, the one in which I introduced myself to all 12 of you that read any of it, was all about my quest to spend a week full of debauchery and adventure in Las Vegas. I succeeded in my aims, and again, I told the truth. When a story like that is the first impression you give out, it's natural to expect a certain amount of judgement. The reason I bring all of that up here is that this is a very different trip. Okay RLCP!!!  They get it!!  Tampa is by no means Vegas, and my reasons for being here are much less offensive to some people's delicate fucking Puritan sensibilities.

I'm in Tampa staying with a friend, we'll call him Rufus - just 'cause I like the name and we were listening to Rufus Wainwright earlier - and his husband, whom I'll christen Bernie - again just 'cause. Tomorrow night, Rufus and I are going to see Roger Waters perform. Now I, my RLCP, and Rufus are all very big Pink Floyd fans, so we're super excited about seeing the show, and also... you know... spending a week together and shit. The only other designs I had for this trip were to get a little palm-tree, beach, and drinks-with-little-umbrellas-in-them time, maybe take a cruise on Rufus' boat around the bay, and go to Universal Studios in Orlando on Friday. So that's the plan, Stan. There will not be much in the way of debauchery in this tale - no Willie's Reserve (or any weed, for that matter, 'cause it's fucking Florida and it's not legal here yet.) - and no promiscuous sex (Both my RLCP and I are in love with that amazing broad back home, and I'm convinced that there's not a woman on earth who could take us away from her - she hits us both right in the feels). But I will report everything interesting that happens. And on the days when nothing interesting happens, I'll do what I always do - make shit up and somehow still tell the truth. Now what's say we get back to the travelogue:

This is the story of day 1. As I type, this all happened two days ago. I had to write some other things the last couple of days, so this is the first chance I've had to put any of this down.

Rufus picked me up in his Beamer from the airport. Straight away we were listening to the soundtrack from the Book of Mormon musical. I'm thoroughly impressed - and I hate musicals. But I love irreverence, more, so it works. We got to Rufus and Bernie's place fairly quickly, and we immediately set about with the drinking. I wish I could write more about those details, but I don't remember them. My RLCP had to take a pill on the plane to try and get some sleep (which was unsuccessful), and unfortunately, if he does that, and I start drinking, then sometimes we get memory lapse, and usually me doing something totally fucking stupid of which I have no memory the next day.

What I do remember is waking up at around 3am local time in the guest bedroom here, with no memory of how or when I got there, or what was said or done in the preceding hours. For all I knew, I lost all control and said or did some incredibly stupid shit. The first thing I did was try to find my phone. I needed to see if I had texted or called my broad and said something stupid. I searched for about ten minutes before I finally found it under the covers in the bed. Shit. That means I probably called her. So, I called again. It's 3am here, but it's only 12am on my coast. She answered, and like the wonderful broad that she is, she assured me that I was definitely drunk and out of it, but that I didn't say anything dumb. I've since been assured by Rufus and Bernie that the damage was mainly limited to me being annoyingly animated with gestures and making a mess of dinner (which I don't remember eating), and my cocktails. We've apologized, and all seems good, but still... I hate that shit. I'm all about having a good time, inebriated or what have you, but I don't like to lose control, and the combination of benzodiazepines, booze, and exhaustion was a recipe for doom that night.

My broad made me feel a little better, and I went back to sleep. When I woke the next morning, I called her again, and she helped my RLCP get rid of his anxiety by getting him to tell her a story. It worked. I started feeling better, went downstairs, got some coffee, and got ready to face the first real day in Tampa.